Child's Play
by Vanr
Summary: When the angels capture Dean and interrogate him for information on Castiel, Dean knows there's no way he'll give up his best friend. Oneshot, no slash


**Short little nugget that makes no sense but I had fun writing, anyway. I was inspired by tumblr (I have a tumblr) and I dunno, I'm tired and I feel like uploading something. Thank you for caring.**

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When he first wakes up, he's disoriented and dizzy, and rightly so. The angels are not kind to him, not that they've ever been, and he can tell his limbs are numb and his lip is bleeding from where he bit it.

He groggily looks around him, and for the first time feels what's happened to him. He's being dragged, pulled down a hallway on a tile floor by two angels, who both have strong grips. He knows he probably can't escape, and he even thinks he knows why they want him. They want to get at Cas, and what better way to get at the angel then kidnap Dean Winchester?

They won't get anything out of him. He's survived (well, not really) 30 years of torture and something two angels do can't hurt him as much as Alastair did. And besides that, he's stronger now, namely in the sense that he isn't dead. He'll be fine.

But, judging by the fact that every time they go through a doorway, the angels take good care to slam his head into it, this isn't going to be easy.

When the drop him, they haven't been going that far. Except it's far enough the Dean is dizzy, and out of sorts from being hit in the head so much. He starts to mumble something, but the angel can't hear and he stops, wincing in pain.

"Where is Castiel?" one of the angels demands. He's tallish, wears a baseball cap and a blue jacket over a plain green button up shirt. He's got a bit of a beard, and it's brown and black and grey and looks like the facial hair of a man refusing to admit his hair is losing its youth.

"Kiss my ass," Dean says in response, with a savage grin.

The first blow lands, planted firmly and painfully in his stomach. Dean groans and doubles up, but uncurls swiftly enough with an even wider grin. This, this is child's play.

"I won't ask again," the angel says. He sounds just as patient as before, like he could continue this all day. Dean knows better than to trust that tone, because it's almost always fake. "Where is Castiel?"

"I can tell you one thing, he ain't in Heaven." Dean laughed shortly, derisively. Trying hard to wind up the angel, to make him get angry or pissed off so that he'll make a mistake.

Another blow, but this time to the face. It lands solidly on his cheekbone, and Dean actually cries out in pain, lowering his head after the deed. His hands go to his face, but before he has time to actually check anything, another strike to his face comes in, this time right in the temple. He collapses onto the ground, near senseless.

"I will not tolerate cheek, Winchester," the angel said, still in that calm, calm voice. "Where is Castiel?"

"Nowhere," Dean said, with a fake, harsh laugh that was nowhere near as well delivered as the first.

The angel's wrath was something to behold. Blow after blow rained down, on his back, on his side, on his chest, on his face and neck, everywhere. He lost track of what they did, not quite unconscious but nowhere near alert and present.

When his mind cleared, he sat slumped against the wall, blood dripping from his mouth, his arms, his nose, his temple, the top of his forehead, from a scratch on his cheek. Blood soaking the front of his shirt and a few places on his jeans. It wasn't too bad, but _fuck_, it hurt. Breathing was a chore, and his breaths were raspy. When he breathed out, blood bubbled and dripped from his opened mouth. His shoulders, too, had to heave with every breath, because his chest was on _fire._

"Where is Castiel?" the angel asked, and although there was no discernable change in his voice, it sound so much more final that Dean knew he had to do something, or he'd be in real trouble. He leaned over, shoulder and head pressed against the wall, back to the angels. Now that they couldn't see him, he let his feature relax, showing the considerable pain he was in a vacant, dull expression. He reached out with an arm, and, slowly, shakingly, drew the angel banishing sigil on the tile floor. It smeared a little, it wasn't perfect, but it had to work.

"I'll tell you where Cas is," he said, and dang, his voice was gravelly. It grated even against his own ears, and he held back a wince. "I just have one question."

Neither of the angels spoke a word, or indeed moved at all, which Dean took as a cue to voice his question. "If Heaven is locked, where do you go when I do this?"

Quick as a flash, he slammed his bloody hand onto the angel banishing sigil. The angels shrieked for a few moments before they disappeared in a flash of bluish-whitish light. Dean relaxed his previously tense muscles, leaning heavily against the wall. He had to get back to the Bunker, to his people, but he had no idea where he was and his head hurt like _hell._

His eyes fluttered closed and he couldn't even stop it, just thinking, _Only for a moment,_ as his mind finally drifted off into blessed unconsciousness.

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